Survival Instinct
by Summer Day
Summary: This is Parts 1 and 2 of Survival Instincts. This story could be seen as a precursor to “The Doctor,” yes, but don’t be surprised if we decide not to go down that route before we’re through. More will follow.
1. A Lecture

"Did you honestly think that I did not know?"  
  
He said nothing.  Knew better than to say anything.  His eyes stayed glued to the floor.  He could have -- *should* have stayed at Hogwarts.  All it would have taken was a steadfast "no."  But it would have been difficult. Saying no to Dumbledore would have been as hard to do as going against Voldemort had been, years ago.  It would have felt the same, like a betrayal. Perhaps not one that would have cost him his life, but, still . . . it was a step he hadn't been willing to take.  He hadn't allowed his mind to consider the refusal, let along give his lips the opportunity to form that simple, soul-stealing, life-saving, two-letter word.  And he wasn't going to say it now that his life was going to be taken from him.  So he stayed silent, staring at the cold and callous floor, instead.  
  
"Your posturing was . . . believable.  But I still knew.  I've known for years.  Ever since you warned the Potters."  
  
That last was surely said to get a reaction, and he did find himself caught by it.  Was it true?  It couldn't be. Voldemort would have killed him years ago if that were true.  Why let a known defector live?  The man wasn't one who could be accused of having a forgiving nature.  Other Death Eaters had been killed for less.  
  
"Your instinct for survival is admirable. Trying to stay close to both sides . . . leaving me for Dumbledore when you sensed trouble . . . " He bit his tongue.  It might not do to inform Voldemort that he had left when he realized that the Dark Lord was completely insane, and would not have had any more dealings with the man after that realization, had it been possible.  'Staying close to both sides' really hadn't been his idea.  
  
". . . And crawling back, now that I have regained my strength.  No doubt waiting until you had some helpful pieces of information to bargain with . . ."  The voice droned on. Had Voldemort always loved the sound of his own voice this much?  It was a particularly grating voice, now . . . torturous in and of itself. Snape soon tired of it.  'Oh, feed me to your snake, already and let's be done with it . . . '  
  
But that didn't happen.  He was there, weak from the interrogation, unwilling to speak aloud, barely able to keep his feet, let alone pay close attention to what was being babbled on about.  And the snake was there as well -- monstrous, dripping with ill-intent. But there was no feeding. Just more of the insane lecture, as though he were merely a wayward child.  It was somewhat disappointing to have fully prepared himself for consumption and then be put off for so long.  He knew that offenders of his type were never blessed with swift executions. An example had to be made of those who dared betray the Dark Lord, and the Avada Kedavra curse simply didn't give as much of a lasting impression as it once did.  
  
He really had thought that spies would be fed to the damn snake.  Only, now he was hearing otherwise.  Hushed voices from the shadows . . . Whispered rumors of even deadlier pets . . . harsher punishments . . . horrific mutilations and agonizing deaths which were drawn out over weeks . . . perhaps longer.  
  
Not that he believed most of it.  Death Eaters could be very melodramatic.  They loved reactions.  They wanted to see fear before the fall. He was in a position to know, after all. So, he wasn't at all surprised to hear the rumors.  He supposed that Voldemort could have acquired a creature more terrible than that hideous snake. One that liked to 'toy' with its prey for extended periods of time.  He couldn't imagine such an animal, however, so he saw no use in dwelling on it.  He was actually rather resigned to his fate.  Anything to keep from hearing anymore of Voldemort's long, tedious monologues.  Instinct for survival, indeed.


	2. Upstairs

As he thought, Nagini was too good for him. His punishment was to be more long-lived. That was all he was told, before three of the others were ordered to "take him upstairs." He hadn't even been aware of an "upstairs," beforehand. Being caught as a spy was almost just as lucrative, informationally, as being one had been. Rather than brood about what his intended fate might be, he reflected on the current situation as it stood. Interesting, that Voldemort was so adamant on the idea of his spying being a survival tactic rather than a true betrayal. The man seemed to believe that Snape wanted to sincerely change sides again . . . or that Snape had never truly double-crossed him, at heart.  
  
He smiled, ruefully. A credit to his manipulating skills, perhaps. Or, perhaps, the Dark Lord still had another hand to play. One which required hope on Snape's part -- or a strong desire to live. A silly thought, indeed. Why should Voldemort want to instill a will to live into Snape, after naming him for a spy and practically condemning him in front of his paltry cult? It was too much speculation. He didn't want to accuse himself of wishful thinking. Not letting himself get depressed over the turn of events in no way gave him leave to be hopeful. Far better to focus on the moment, instead. He didn't want to speculate, anymore, so he forced himself to settle on pure observation.  
  
The air was dank and lifeless. It wasn't the most clinical of observations, but it was certainly apt. There was no other way to describe the feel of the place . . . Though the floor they were on was definitely above ground. There were dirty windows here, small, set high in the walls. And heavily barred from the outside. Wherever they were, it seemed to be secured. It certainly felt enough like a prison. But it was too quiet. There were too many cobwebs and rusted hinges for the place to be called anything but dead, even if Voldemort were holding base there. At least, it had seemed dead until they had walked further down the hall after ascending two very narrow flights of stairs. It was then that he heard the noises. Was the building infested with rats? That would make sense, given its dilapidated condition. But the sounds couldn't all be attributed to rats. The scufflings and scrapings, perhaps . . . but not the breathing. He glanced at his escorts, narrowing his eyes and trying to decide if they were to blame for that. It was difficult to tell, though one of them seemed to be *holding* his breath. He wasn't sure exactly what was responsible for the odd breathing, but he knew that rats didn't chuckle, either. And neither did his former associates.   
  
"Well, now. Who do we have here?" That was certainly no rat! Snape caught a glimpse of an unremarkable man just inside one of the rooms -- balding, wearing white and gray . . . before one of the Death Eaters strayed from his side to spell the man's door shut and lock it, muttering something unintelligible. Another prisoner of Voldemort's whims? Security around here was rather lax, if that were the case. The clothing had been odd . . . perhaps . . . a Muggle? Absurd! There was no logical reason for a Muggle to be peering out of a doorway in Voldemort's makeshift fortress, smiling obscenely at him while he was being led to his own demise. So Snape let the image go. He had other things to think about, after all.

  



End file.
